


Falling for the First Time

by athena_crikey



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftermath, M/M, Recovery, h/c, ineffable husbands, or a demon for that matter?, what is the measure of an angel?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-23 14:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19702822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Did one become a demon simply through the act of falling? He felt in no way demonic; he had no desire to tempt passing mortals and listen to be-bop.





	1. The Fall

“You’ve become enamored of humanity,” Gabriel told him, his celestial chorus agreeing calmly in the background. “Their music, their books, their _sushi._ ”

Aziraphale stared back, caught between shock and desperation. In reality, he had known this day would come. But to be charged thusly… “I’m an angel – it’s in our nature to love!”

“Incorrect. It is in our nature to induce _others_ to love, and to goodness, and charity. We are neutral parties, Aziraphale. _We_ , but no longer you. You have lost your neutrality. And with it your connection to the ineffable plan.”

Aziraphale tried to smile. It came out as a grimace. “I’ll get it back,” he murmured, hoping beyond hope. “Really. I shall do better.”

“You have already lost us the eternal holiness to follow the Apocalypse. Heaven is not minded to give you a second chance.”

What he really meant, Aziraphale knew, was that _he_ wasn’t minded. Gabriel had always been a smug, self-important man – angel. One of the old type who believed in smiting first to wipe out sin, rather than healing later. 

“But –” 

He never finished his protest. A hot wind like the breeze off the Sahara rolled into him, pushing his angelic powers ahead of it. His wings manifested, brimming with power and potential. And Gabriel, for the first time, smiled. 

“Get him,” he said to his holy chorus.

  
***

Aziraphale had never dreamt of falling for the simple reason that Aziraphale had never dreamt. Angels and demons have no need of sleep, and while he was aware that Crowley basked in the unnecessary luxury, he carried on staunchly in his duty twenty four hours a day.

He fell now, plummeting to Earth like a meteorite, a trail of fire in his wake. It was the last of his powers burning off, like brandy off a Crepe Suzette. 

He impacted in a field somewhere in Shropshire, all greenness and life. But where he fell there was only black earth and scorch marks, his clothes now coal-black. His back was rent wide open, his wings gone.

All he was aware of for a long time was the agony of it. He had never experienced pain beyond the brief sensations of being inconveniently discorporated, had no conception of how all-encompassing it was. How it filled him to the brim and spilled out in pants and screams, too utterly awful to be overcome. 

“Dear God, guide me through this,” he prayed, but even as he did he was horribly aware that he no longer had the Almighty’s ear. 

After some while hovering on the edge of consciousness, his reality defined solely by heat and pain, he was aware of a heavy shower falling over him. It cooled his burning skin and cleaned his fevered brow.

A dark figure shuffled down into the pit of his impact, hissing to himself.

Crowley. 

“Bloody hell, angel,” he muttered to himself, squatting down at Aziraphale’s side. His sure hand traced over now-cooling cloth, flushed skin, and then, light as down, over Aziraphale’s torn back.

Aziraphale screamed.

“Alright, alright, fair enough,” conceded Crowley, his voice like the buzzing of flies to the angel’s ears. Then there was a glow – not of heat, but of power – at his back.

It did absolutely nothing to stop the pain.

“Sod,” said Crowley. There was another, stronger flare of power. It too did nothing. “I can’t heal you. _Why_ can’t I heal you?”

“It’s Heaven’s will,” choked out Aziraphale, dirt in his mouth. 

“Torturing bastards. Always knew they had a malicious streak in them. Look at the ark, all those kiddies drowned.”

Right at this minute, Aziraphale was not inclined to argue. 

“Well, it looks like you’re coming with me as-is, then.” Crowley bent down, pulled Aziraphale’s arm over his shoulder, and stood. 

Aziraphale promptly fainted.

  
***

He woke up sometime later at what he knew at once must by Crowley’s flat – it smelled like the demon. Not of fire and brimstone but of expensive cologne and secretive cigarettes.

He had never been here before. It was part of the Agreement – neither had ever been in the other’s flat. 

But now he was no longer an angel. He was… what? Did one become a demon simply through the act of falling? He felt in no way demonic; he had no desire to tempt passing mortals and listen to be-bop. The most of what he felt, still, was an intense burn of pain in his back. It was no longer all-encompassing, but it was still holding his attention like a military aide’s grip on the nuclear football. 

Aziraphale turned over and found himself in Crowley’s bed, a king-sized bed with black sheets and a charcoal-grey comforter. The walls of the bedroom were black as night, and he felt sure that had Crowley been in the habit of purchasing his clothes rather than manifesting them from the firmament, he would somewhere find a wardrobe full of black shirts and trousers and, probably, pants. 

Here he was on his first day as a no-longer-angel thinking about a demon’s pants. Perhaps Gabriel had been right. Perhaps he had lost his holiness.

“Knock knock,” said a familiar voice. Crowley sidled into the room. “Oh good. You’re awake. I don’t know who I would have called otherwise – doctor or priest, it was an even toss-up.” He snapped his fingers and a steam-lined black leather armchair appeared in front of him; he took a seat, crossing his legs. “You don’t look up to much.”

“I feel very poorly,” agreed Aziraphale.

“Sounds like an understatement. You should see the state of your back.”

Aziraphale pushed the covers down and tried to crane his head; his clothes had been removed and thick white gauze had been wrapped round his chest and torso, covering whatever hideousness lay below. He ran a finger over the rough bandage. “You did this,” he said, quietly.

“Guilty as charged. Didn’t want your blood on the sheets. It’s a bugger to get out, angel blood.”

“Should I say thank you?” he looked back to Crowley.

“Demons don’t.”

“I’m not a demon, Crowley.”

“You’re no longer an angel, though. Are you.” It wasn’t a question.

For 6,000 years Aziraphale had lived under the simple assumption that angels did good, and demons evil. Somewhere along the line things had gotten a bit mixed – Crowley’s fault, doubtless – and occasionally he took a job doing a temptation while the demon performed minor miracles. But deep down he remained resolutely sure: it was an angel’s task to love his Father’s creations and do good on their behalf.

He had never realised that this disagreed fundamentally with the Management’s opinions. 

“I don’t know what I am,” he said, softly. “My powers are gone.”

Crowley pushed off from his chair and stalked over, taking a seat this time on the edge of the mattress. “You don’t smell human,” he said. “You’re still immortal – or at least, you won’t age.”

“No. But the first time I’m…” _inconvenient_ no longer applied. He swallowed. “Discorporated, they won’t be giving me a new body. Or entrance into Heaven. I’ll just… drift. Like so much sea foam.”

“Or you could join us,” pointed out Crowley. “It’s not so bad. We’ve some of the all-time greats downstairs.”

Aziraphale gave him a helpless look. “I’m not a demon – I’m not! Do you know what got me in this mess? Loving this world too much. Does that sound demonic to you?”

“Sounds like something only you would own up to. I like the Earth just fine, but you don’t see me going around spreading joy and love.”

“It was your idea to prevent the Apocalypse. You wanted to save good music, as I recall. And my bookstore. And _sushi_.” Here he gave a little sob.

Crowley looked, if anything, embarrassed. “Yes, well, that was for your benefit, wasn’t it?”

“So you were never invested in humanity’s continuance?”

“Never said that. I just… I did it for my own joy and not for anyone else. You were talking about how the giant kraken would boil up to the top of the seas, if I recall. Practically blubbering over the fate of hideous monsters.”

“They’re all God’s creations,” said Aziraphale. 

“And that’s where we differ. To me, they’re just giant sea monsters. Their existence never brought me a single iota of joy. But humans… well, humans are different.”

“You’re entranced by them.”

“Not entranced, _not_ entranced,” protested the demon hurriedly. “I just appreciate them. Like a connoisseur.”

Aziraphale sighed, slumping down into the soft bed. “I suppose it hardly matters. You’ve always been so popular with your people, praised for your bad deeds. Whereas me… well, look at me now.” He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by loss. 

“You’ll find your feet.”

“But not my wings. They’re gone, Crowley. Gone forever. Dear God!” This time he really did give a sob, curling in on himself in the immense bed. 

“I still remember the sound of Heaven’s gates closing behind me,” said Crowley suddenly, unexpectedly. “You’re not alone, you know. You’re not the only one the Almighty was too high and mighty for. We were both angels once.”

“And p-poor examples, at that,” choked out Aziraphale. 

“You’ll be alright. I’ll look after you ‘til you find your … yourself. Right? You’ve still got the bookstore, and your flat, and – and the _world_. That’s thanks to you.”

“I think,” said Aziraphale quietly, “that I should like to be alone.”

“Oh. Well. Right, then. I’ll come back later, shall I? You should try sleeping – you’d like it. Very relaxing.”

  
***

Aziraphale couldn’t sleep. His back hurt too much, and each pang and throb from his torn skin reminded him of what he had lost. His beautiful wings had been more than a part of him, had been the source of his angelic power, had been what identified him as a celestial being. Even the original demons like Crowley had wings, their feathers tar black with God’s disfavour.

He had been an angel his whole life, had devoted millennia to serving a higher purpose. And now he had been cast aside like a used tissue, tossed into the bin of humanity to live out eternity without the ability to perform a single miracle. 

He felt naked as Adam, without even a flaming sword for protection.


	2. Suspicions

Time passed. Crowley brought in delightful meals to tempt him (temptation being, after all, a specialty), doubtless magicked straight to Aziraphale’s bedside from the kitchen prep table without bothering with inconvenient things like ordering or payment. 

Aziraphale discovered that pain severely diminished appetite and that sitting up in bed, even with Crowley’s down-stuffed pillows at his back, was a new agony. He had gone bone-white the first time he pulled himself up, and nearly fainted, and Crowley had made another desperate attempt to heal his back – to no avail. The experience had left Aziraphale panting and Crowley cursing. 

Neither of them were used to helplessness. 

It was indeed a brave new world, one Aziraphale was vaguely aware would be filled with things like VAT men and community developers, tribulations which previously he had miracled away. Fortunately he owned the leasehold of his bookstore, having bought it when it was cheap in 1666*, and had a safe full of cash accumulated through stock options dating back to the origins of the Market. 

*It had been the original fire sale.

This new world also included new inconveniences hither-to unknown to him such as the need to use the loo and, far more embarrassingly, his now-functional male anatomy. Angels and demons, unless they made an extreme effort, were at the bottom sexless. Upon losing his grace, he had also lost that privilege. At the moment it wasn’t much of an issue, but given the litany of messes testosterone and lust had caused throughout human history, he doubted he would remain unaffected forever. 

“Perhaps it’s all downhill from here,” he told Crowley, feeling very sorry for himself.

The demon considered. “Naw. Plenty of fun left to be had. You and me, Aziraphale, we’ve seen some spectacles in our time. We’ll see some more before it’s all finished.”

It was true that he and Crowley had come a long way together. They had the Agreement of course, but more than that they had 6,000 years of what the demon had once called friendship. Aziraphale had balked at the term at the time, but that had been before the supposed last days of the world. Before standing shoulder to shoulder facing what was to come. 

He had always been aware of the demon’s regard for him. For a time Aziraphale had passed it off as envy – the disappointed longing of an outcast for a Heaven lost to him. But that had been pomposity: Crowley didn’t envy anyone. He lived his life exactly as he chose, full of expensive gimmicks and loud music. So after a while Aziraphale had revised his opinion of Crowley’s esteem. It was surely born of long familiarity and a kind of comfort in the knowledge that he knew how Aziraphale would react to any given situation – rather the same way humans tended to favour worn, holey pairs of slippers over new. This particular theory appealed to Aziraphale, who also tended to favour old and familiar things over the newest, shiniest inventions; it explained his bakelite phone and gramophone and fondness for music circa 1700. 

But recently – as of about 1 week ago – he had begun to wonder. Had begun to cast his mind back over centuries of rescues and unlooked-for assistance from the demon, and asked himself: _why._

It was very much the question he was now asking himself as he sat in Crowley’s bed, wearing Crowley’s (slightly tight) pyjamas and eating meals fetched by Crowley to ensure he didn’t perish due to starvation before he’d even had the chance to get on with his new life. 

Why was Crowley troubling with him? One fewer divine influences in his life would doubtless make it simpler. And yet he had driven out to Shropshire to rescue Aziraphale in his most desperate moment, had brought him home and bandaged his wounds. 

Had cared for him. 

Such were not the acts of a demon. But then Aziraphale remembered Gabriel’s words: _It is in our nature to induce others to love, and to goodness, and charity. We are neutral parties, Aziraphale._

Perhaps the same was to be true of demons. Perhaps Crowley was not a font of wickedness, but merely a catalyst for it. 

Perhaps Aziraphale was the next target of his temptations. A fallen angel, after all, would be a feather in the demon’s cap. And since the world had failed to end, Crowley could likely use all the feathers available to him in his efforts to increase his standings with those downstairs. 

Aziraphale was becoming slowly aware that his thoughts were devolving into gloominess, and further into suspicion, which was very unlike him. The longer he stayed awake the more suspicious he grew, coming to wonder if Crowley had already alerted Hell to his visitor, and whether these scrumptious meals were somehow intended to further tarnish his name, and why it was that Crowley wouldn’t allow him to return to his bookstore. 

“You need to sleep, angel,” Crowley told him that afternoon, having cleared away the remains of a plate of latkes and lox garnished with a radish reduction almost untouched. Aziraphale rather liked the fact that he still referred to him as ‘angel,’ or at least he did until his nervous mind began to scratch at the thought. 

“I don’t sleep,” replied Aziraphale, stifling a yawn. 

“You didn’t when you were a celestial being. Without your powers you need sleep.”

“Suddenly you’re an expert?” flared Aziraphale. And then, at Crowley’s surprised look, blushed. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s not you, it’s the sleep deprivation. You’ve been up for nearly four days. You need to get your head down. Take me at my word. I know what I’m talking about.”

And that was the thing. Most of the time, Crowley _did_. While Aziraphale had a razor-sharp mind and the intellect to rival Newton and Einstein on their good days, Crowley had street smarts. He got under humanity’s skin and knew their needs and wants – it was what made him so good at his job. Which meant that right now, he understood Aziraphale better than the former angel understood himself. 

“I can help,” added Crowley.

“I don’t want you trying out your powers of suggestion on me,” said Aziraphale, pettily. 

“Then you’ll have to do it the old fashioned way. Lie down and mind your back.”

“I know how to sleep, Crowley. It doesn’t take an executive coach.”

The demon backed off. “Right. Fine. I’ll just leave you to figure it out, shall I?” He slipped out of the room, leather shoes surprisingly quiet on the marble floor. 

Aziraphale slowly wormed his way down into the bed to lie on his side, his head on the pillow smelling softly of Crowley’s aftershave, his eyes tightly closed. 

_Now I lay me down to sleep,_ he thought earnestly. _I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to – what?_

He opened his eyes. Prayer had always been easy, had been a comfort in hard times. Now it felt tainted, sardonic. He was very aware that, while Heaven might be listening, it bore him no good will. No flights of angels would sing him to sleep; they had happily ripped him asunder and cast him out. 

For 6,000 years he had laboured alone without back-up, but with the knowledge that _should he have needed it_ back-up would be there. 

Now he was simply alone. 

Very softly, Aziraphale began to cry.

  
***

At some point, bizarrely, tears turned to sleep. Likely it was due to the exhaustion – he had had no conception of how exhausting sobbing one’s eyes out was.

Sleep was terrifying. Crowley talked about it as though it was a luxury, a relaxation above all others. But to Aziraphale it was like slowly falling down a dark well without any reassurance that he would be able to get back up again, and no knowledge of what horrors waited for him at the bottom. 

In fact, he hadn’t dreamed, or if he had he didn’t remember upon waking. He had slipped out of sleep’s dark stream to find himself still in Crowley’s bed and the world a few hours older. Aziraphale gave a delicate shudder and slowly sat up. 

He was beginning to tire of the black sheets and black room. Several days ago Crowley had offered to lend him his mobile so he could watch Netflix, but Aziraphale had requested the John Donne folio edition from his bookshop instead. He hadn’t bothered lending Crowley the keys – suggesting he would need them was practically an insult. The pristine manuscript sat on the bedside table now, well-thumbed – well _loved._

Aziraphale wanted to go home. Home to his bookstore smelling of ink and book binding glue and old leather. Home to his own crowded, snug, pleasant space. Crowley’s flat was all chrome and black paint and terrified houseplants; he craved coziness. 

He had already been across the room to the en suite a number of times and had survived. With that under his belt he was ready, he felt, to face the world. 

Gingerly he slipped out of the bed and onto the cold marble floor. His over-long pyjama trousers rucked up at his ankles. He had never before worn clothes that didn’t fit. Good tailoring had always been as important to him as timeliness. Crowley’s black PJs with sable embossing (of the Chinese character _wicked_ ) weren’t his idea of stylish. 

He looked around for a replacement and came up wanting. So it was in the tacky black pyjamas that he made his way forth into Crowley’s flat. 

Unlike the bookshop, the décor was minimalistic, and what there was of it didn’t appeal. A room full of terrified plants; a large wall-mounted flat-screen plasma telly (Aziraphale was still hazy on the functioning of CRT technology; the new tellies baffled him entirely); and what could only be described as a gilt throne. 

By the time he reached the lounge his back was throbbing, blood thundering in his ears. He could feel his legs shaking against the loose pyjama trousers, his body trembling like one of Crowley’s houseplants. He stepped forward and caught hold of the back of the throne, trying to steady himself.

Had he had a few minutes to catch his breath and compose himself, he might have been fine. But as it happened, Crowley chose that minute to walk in the front door. He stopped dead in the small onyx-tiled foyer. “Angel,” he said, less in greeting than accusation.

“Oh, hullo,” said Aziraphale, rather lamely. “I’ve been feeling better. Tip-top shape, really. So I thought it was time to be getting back to my shop. Books aren’t going to sell themselves, you know.” He tapped his fingers on the back of the throne. 

“You never sell any of your books,” replied Crowley tartly. “More to the point, you were planning to cross London dressed for bed without a pound to your name?”

“I would have waited for you, naturally. I simply can’t lie around abed any longer. I can’t, Crowley.”

“Can’t say as I understand infirmity from personal experience, but you look pretty infirm at the moment. Suppose I do this…” he crossed the room and, lifting Aziraphale’s arm at the wrist, pulled the chair out of his reach. Aziraphale took one step, stumbled, and fell into his arms. “Not exactly ship-shape, are we?” murmured Crowley. 

“Of course I’m not. But that doesn’t mean that I have to be treated like a Ming vase. I want to go home.” The fact that Crowley was holding him gentle as bone china, careful to take the weight off Aziraphale’s back and not approach it, only made him somehow more distressed. 

“Are you inviting me over?” asked Crowley. Aziraphale opened his mouth but found himself without a ready reply. “Because if you’re going, I’m going to have to tag along to keep an eye on you.”

Aziraphale resented the factuality of it, resented this new reality in which he was dependent on others. On, specifically, Crowley. But he wasn’t a fool; he recognized the truth in it. He straightened carefully, pushing against Crowley until he was standing unaided. “Then yes. Yes, I suppose I am.”

Crowley grinned. “Alright, then. We’ll go to your place.”


End file.
